


Stay

by CrownLullaby



Series: Comfort is only yours to give [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Lyrium Withdrawal, Romance, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Some feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownLullaby/pseuds/CrownLullaby
Summary: That first night after he had brought her back, Cullen had not left her side.The healers had to force him out of the tent to work on her, but once they had confirmed that she was stable and no longer in need of treatment it had been impossible to keep him out. He was sure that he had seen Leliana smile, and though Josephine seemed too tired to really titter about it, it had certainly looked like she wanted to.He did not care, and kept her small hand in his as he stood vigil.





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> One more single-chapter story before I probably start bundling the romance build-up in a multi-chapter story where we really start the slow burn. I've been trying to get to a more regular posting schedule and would like to do weekly updates once I get enough content. As always, hope you enjoy reading and I love getting comments :) Let me know what you think!

That first night after he had brought her back, Cullen had not left her side.

The healers had to force him out of the tent to work on her, but once they had confirmed that she was stable and no longer in need of treatment it had been impossible to keep him out. He was sure that he had seen Leliana smile, and though Josephine seemed too tired to really titter about it, it had certainly looked like she wanted to.  
He did not care, and kept her small hand in his as he stood vigil.  
A couple of broken ribs, they had said, and more cuts and bruises than they could count. Internal bleeding, a sprained ankle, probably a minor concussion… the list was endless. It looked like she had been tossed around like a puppet, and the thought of that… sickened him. He felt his insides churning and tried not to think about it, focusing instead on her face. Siiri looked relaxed, with only the smallest hint of a frown between her eyebrows. The elfroot should be giving her a relatively painless sleep, but not everything would have healed already. His eyes roamed over her features, his tense muscles slowly relaxing. _She was safe,_ he repeated in his mind like a mantra, _safe for now._ She moved in her sleep, mumbling vague words in Elvhen, and Cullen felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Ir abelas,” he said softly, remembering her earlier words and gently tucking some hair that had escaped her braid back behind her ear. His face flooded with heat when he realized what he had done and he quickly whipped his head around, as if to check that there were no others in the tent. He felt her fingers flex in his hand and squeezed back softly, still marvelling over the feel of her hand in his. It would be even better if she was awake, he thought sombrely, but then again she might not want to hold his hand if she was.

After all, who would want a broken Lyrium addict like him? A _shemlen_ as she so often called them, a former Templar, the one thing she had always learned to fear? _You will never be truly free of the yoke,_ the lyrium sang in the back of his head. _Always chained to the Chantry. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Take the lyrium, Cullen. You would be less broken if you did, and she would not care for you either way. Once a Templar, always a Templar._ And for a moment, the song sounded so tempting, igniting that fire in his blood as the back of his throat went dry, aching for the blue liquid.

Shame took over and he slowly tried to let go of her hand, suddenly feeling unworthy of holding it, but then her eyelids fluttered open and she clutched his fingers with hers. “Cullen,” she spoke, still half delirious with sleep. “Stay. _Ma falon._ ” She sounded a bit feverish, but as Cullen put his hand on her forehead, she quieted down, seemingly content. With a lopsided smile he withdrew his hand, putting it on top of hers. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “You have my word.”

 

Later, when the healers needed him to leave the tent so they could change her dressings, he saw Solas walking by and he could not contain himself. Cullen turned a deep shade of red when the elf told him in a mildly amused tone what _falon_ meant, immediately inquiring if a certain Herald had asked him that question.

Did she consider him a friend? Maker’s breath.

 

He wanted her to.

 

He wished it wasn’t necessary, but they had to get moving from the moment Siiri was well enough to be out of bed. They had too many refugees, too many people needing shelter and food that they could not find in the mountains. She and Solas led them through the passes, her small figure silhouetted against the pale sky as she looked over her people.  
He had seen the look of determination on her face that evening when they sang for her, kneeling in front of their Herald. He, too, had joined in, his voice full of the words he could not speak. _You mean so much to us,_ he thought as he sang, _to me._ She tangled his heart beyond repair when she looked at him like she did, like he _mattered._

_The shepherd’s lost, and his home is far._

His home did not even exist anymore, wiped away in the Blight. Honnleath had not been his home for a long time, and neither Kinloch or Kirkwall could ever have been anything close to home, but the Inquisition had finally started to feel like something more. Her green eyes looked at him, almost uncomfortable, but also with a confident edge to them that he had always admired. He had to join in with the hymn.

_T_ _he night is long,_ he sang, closing his eyes as the emotions flooded over him, _and the path is dark, look to the sky for one day soon, the dawn will come…_

and it had come in the shape of her.

_Bare your blade, and raise it high._

He used to think of the Blade of Mercy, wreathed in flames as he brought justice upon the mages. He had been bitter and blind, but knew better now – was _trying_ to be better now. She made him better.

_Stand your ground, the dawn will come. The night is long, and the path is dark, look to the sky for one day soon, the dawn will come._

When he opened his eyes again, she was looking over the people, _her_ people, with awe and passion in her eyes. They had all kneeled in front of her in supplication, despite her gentle coaxing for them to get up again, and looked at her like she was the sun.

 

He knew he had the same look in his eyes.

 

And when she saw that they would not relent, she straightened her back and tilted her chin up, looking every bit as regal as her title suggested. _Herald of Andraste_ was the title on everyone’s lips, but when she looked at him again, he nodded gently and mouthed the words she had said to him the previous night.

 

_Ma falon._

 

She turned a rather fetching shade of scarlet at that, which had Mother Giselle turning towards her and asking her if she felt alright. Siiri had made a quick excuse, ears twitching slightly at the lie, and after insisting that she was fine had done the rounds with the soldiers, asking them if they were okay and if there was anything she could do for them.

 

The smug feeling of having made her blush almost made up for the embarrassment at having asked Solas what it meant.

  
Almost.

 

The journey went about as smoothly as they could expect with their numbers and injured. He did not have time to speak to Siiri, which left him aching, but his soldiers needed him. It was hard, but he managed to get everyone back into a semblance of order – scouts working together with his patrols, guards in the rear of the group and a rotation schedule so everyone could get some rest.

A couple of days later, they reached Skyhold, and the long days had finally taken their toll on him. The Lyrium song was louder than ever, singing and pleading in his bones. He’d had to take care of the Lyrium stores for the templars, distributing it among them, and every time he had done a round his hands would be shaking, sweat beading on his forehead. It was torture, but there was no one else to do it.

She came by once, when he had just finished, and his hands had been shaking so hard that she had noticed. Kind as always, she had inquired what was wrong, and he had all but snapped at her that he was _fine,_ and still capable of doing his job. Her face at blanked at that, and as she looked at him with that perfectly composed mask like the one she wore when she just came to them, he had felt nothing but shame as he started to walk on.  
“Stay,” she pleaded, softly grabbing his arm, but he shook his head and gently pried her fingers from his vambrace.

Her words were gentle, a request and not an order, but her soft touch was almost too much to bear at that moment. She looked worried, the smallest hint of a frown breaking through her otherwise calm mask, ears pointed slightly downwards as she looked over his face and tried to find out what was wrong.

"Please, Cullen. Stay. Talk to me."

The compassion in her voice made it harder to keep looking away. Cullen looked at her briefly, sighing before he spoke. “I can’t. Forgive me.”

 

 

_He was not worthy. Broken. Weak. A Templar without the Lyrium is still a Templar in her eyes._

 

_He could not stay._

 


End file.
